threshold

I haven’t written a blog in a long time. A long, long time. While I have various reasons or excuses, it ultimately comes down to me not having anything interesting to say.

When I first came to Mozambique, I had high hopes that I would have super exciting and thrilling adventures and take lots of cool pictures and share lots of awesome stories. And then I would capture all of these tales on my blog. I certainly had story-rich, adrenaline-filled days.

But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks quickly turned into years, I realized that I was just simply living my life. What started out as “I can’t believe…” or “my first time doing…” gradually just turned into life. And I discovered that I was learning to live life all over again.

I’ve learned how to function in a different country. I’ve learned how to adapt to different cultures. I’ve learned how to cook kale. I’ve learned how to make friends in the biggest city I’ve ever lived in. I’ve learned how to vacation alone in other countries. I’ve learned how to drive in absurd traffic. I’ve learned different ways to measure success. I’ve learned vocabulary for wedding receptions in Portuguese. I’ve learned how to live with a boy. I’ve learned how to grieve. I’ve learned skills I never knew I had. I’ve learned that pistols can be turned into peace signs. I’ve learned how to orient and walk alongside people new to Mozambique. I’ve learned not to take hot running water or wireless Internet for granted. I’ve learned to slow down. I’ve learned how to be part of a new family. I’ve learned how to not just live, but to thrive.

MCC was the reason that I came to Mozambique four years ago. I highly doubt I ever would have come here if it wasn’t for MCC. But I think that in all of these lessons, God was preparing me to be able to stand on my own two feet, apart from the loving care of MCC Mozambique. MCC gave me a vast collection of experiences and lessons learned, and for that I am truly grateful.

Today marks the end of my four years of serving with MCC. In exactly a week, I’ll begin my time at the American International School of Mozambique where I’ll be a teaching assistant for grade five. But I know that despite being expected to help teach, I’ll be doing a lot more learning in this next year.

My boss described this time as a threshold. I really like the imagery of being on the brink between two great opportunities. It’s not that the door is closing on MCC, or that there’s greener pastures in some other job. I’m not anxious to move on, nor am I clinging to memories of the last four years. I’m also not in some transient abyss where I feel lost and confused.

Instead, I have great peace. MCC taught me what peace in action looks like. Mozambique has taught me what expectant hope looks like. So as I’m in the threshold, I simply take the next step. 

home sweet home

October 15 marked the one year anniversary for moving into my apartment in Maputo. It also marked a new beginning that I definitively decided on as I fell asleep one night: composting. Now, I live on the top floor of a very urban apartment building, but in the last year, my apartment has seen my modest plant friend collection expand. I recently bought some new seeds and started harvesting some from the vegetables I regularly consume. Then I decided that by golly, I WOULD make my own verandah garden. I do realize that given the neighborhood threats of rats, cockroaches and ants, my venture into back verandah composting could be compromised. But I’m going to stay positive and start rotting my foodstuffs. My goal is that in time, I will create enough fertilizer and/or soil to support my garden and produce herbs, flowers and at least one avocado, pineapple, green pepper, green bean, and squash in the next year. We’ll see.

While I can’t believe it’s already been a year since moving into my humble abode, I also can’t believe my transitions and personal growth over the last year. I remember the sorry state my apartment was in when I first walked in with my suitcases. There were only two working light bulbs, which is more than could be said of the latch-less front door slamming in the breeze. But in the last year, I’ve slowly turned a grungy bug hole in the ghetto into a cute little Pintrest-inspired home. I’ve learned that living without electricity at night, water during the day, and gas for a stove over a weekend all makes me appreciate those amenities so much more. I’ve learned to embrace the satisfaction of not having ants covering every surface of my kitchen. I’ve watched holes get drilled into the walls, the kitchen floor get ripped out, pipes get exposed in every corner, and sinks get dismantled, all to learn the blessing of plumbing. Intrusion of rats quickly taught me the importance of keeping my kitchen window closed and that my boyfriend is a merciless rat-smasher. And, after many solitary evenings alone, I’ve recognized the beauty of community and hosting friends.

But I think all in all, this last year in my apartment has taught me the importance of getting dirty in order to grow. So in this concept, the composting shall commence in the hope of bringing forth new life in the next year of apartment life.

solidarity

I had been to Mozambican weddings, parties, homes, schools, and rituals, but never to a funeral. A month or so ago, I was comparing cultural experiences with some other expats, and I remember feeling low on some vague and frivolous cross-cultural point system because I didn't have funeral attendance on my list. But now, my former selfishness has rapidly faded away in the commemoration of the life and death of someone who I cared about.

My boyfriend’s father passed away on October 6^th. I saw him that previous Sunday and heard his struggling voice and felt his clinging grip as he refused to let post-op complications and sickness get the best of him. He was recovering, but quickly declined in his final days. So it was quite a shock when Victor returned to the car after a routine check-in at the hospital with the news that his father was gone. I held him in the car and took him back to my place to pack my bag, but I felt so helpless. I then drove us to his home where we rocked our heads in our hands with his family, and I felt so unhelpful. In the following days, I stayed, ate, cried, talked, and stared into space with his family, and I felt so useless.

I had no words in any language, I had limited skills for hosting the communal masses, and had nothing to offer for comfort. I am not a legitimate family member, and have few memories of this man to share. I look differently, I talk strangely, and am all things foreign. But I stayed. I had no words so I was quiet. I had no actions so I was still. I took time off work so I had nothing to do. And somehow there was immense peace in just being. There was no awkwardness in silence and no longer anxiety in inactivity. I was there, and that was the biggest gift I could give.

At some points, I had time to be alone as Victor was in family meetings and guests ebbed and flowed. I read a book by Henri Nouwen in these spaces, and I came across a passage that I found fitting for my situation.

“Those who do not run away from out pains but touch them with compassion bring healing and new strength. The paradox indeed is that the beginning of healing is in the solidarity with the pain. In our solution-oriented society it is more important than ever to realize that wanting to alleviate pain without sharing it is like wanting to save a child from a burning house without the risk of being hurt.”

I had already explained to his family that I wasn't going to spend time with them only in good times when there was celebration and happy moments. I was willing to be by their sides in times of grief and pain as well.

I think that part of the cause of our suffering in moments like these is realizing that life is out of our control. We had plans of things to do with Victor’s father, places to go together, words to say, and love to show. His family strived hard to get the best medicine, talk constantly with doctors, and seek out every possible treatment. But when God allows such an interruption to the flow of our normalcy and intentions  it throws our perceptions of control out of order. The acceptance that God’s plans are better, bigger, higher, and more logical than ours is seemingly ludicrous in these situations. But while I can’t offer any other advice or wisdom or condolence to his family, I can offer solidarity in the struggle of what they’re going through, acknowledging that it’s not about me or us in the face of a larger plan. Nouwen continues to say:

 “The movement from loneliness to solitude is a movement that allows us to perceive interruptions as occasions for a conversion of the heart, which makes our responsibilities a vocation instead of a burden, and which creates the inner space where a compassionate solidarity with our fellow human beings becomes possible.”

peace

“Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.” [Unknown]

Whew, I’ve been in quite the busy season lately. Since writing so long ago, I’ve been in over my head managing two important grant proposals, have welcomed my mom, bid farewell to teammates, hung out with other teammates beachside, hosted friends, duplicated the number of furniture in my apartment, traveled to Swaziland and South Africa, and added a new women’s Bible study to my schedule. By the end of the day, I’m usually exhausted, uninspired, and sick of looking at my computer screen, so I’ve had little motivation to update everyone on the ins and outs of my life.

It has been a challenging past few months, in which I’ve grown and learned a lot. I’ve encountered about every emotion possible, but in the midst of everything, I’ve found glimpses of peace and hope. These states of being haven’t always come easily, and have often made themselves apparent only after a deep search. But somewhere in the midst of my reading and reflection a few weeks ago, I came across the quote above. Its simple complexity struck me. And I began meditating on it as my email inbox made me want to retreat into a curled ball under my desk. I thought of it as I contrasted the turquoise glass of the ocean with the roaring motor of the boat taking us out to our snorkeling location. And I began to recognize it under the noise and energy of my vibrant church members dancing and singing on a Sunday morning.

As these seeds of growth took root, I decided to seek the joy and peace of present moments, no matter how much chaos or confusion under which they are buried. And to commemorate this process, I’m hosting a get-together in my apartment tomorrow entitled a Life Celebration Party. Maputo has such a transient community where people rush in and out of the capital for a few weeks or months at a time. Regardless of if they’re language-learning, job-hunting, retreating, or volunteering for a short time, people seem to whisk away just as we make a deeper friendship. Because of these realities, I want to celebrate the friends and community that is right here, right now. Maybe their term will be over soon, or maybe we’ve only recently become friends. Still, I want to acknowledge the joy found in being together today, regardless of what tomorrow brings. Through this, I’ve found great peace in celebrating the present.

choices

Last week, I went to a food security and value-added agriculture workshop in Maputo. Since a large part of my work revolves around promoting conservation agriculture and addressing food security in Mozambique, I was interested to learn how others were approaching on the topic or using other techniques. The workshop had representatives and speakers from the commercial and business sector, fellow NGO workers, individual consultants, and academics from local and international universities.

We discussed various aspects of food insecurity in Mozambique, focusing mostly on the challenges and how to address them. I found it interesting that we defined food security as not only having consistent food sources, but having choices or varieties in food. Food security also means having sufficient quantity and quality food and nutrition sources, but an underlying measure of security is having choices in the food one consumes.

By the third day, my head was spinning from the new information the all-day workshops gave me. In my processing of how to move forward from our discussions, I realized that there’s a gap between freedom of choices and forcing of choices in relation to food security. And as a result, the freedom of choices often leads to forcing of other choices.

For many billions of us in the world, we have the freedom of many food-related choices in our lives. In my Mozambican kitchen, I stand looking in my fridge, produce basket or cupboard every day at 5 p.m. wondering what I could make for dinner. I can choose from various starches, proteins, and vegetables and multiple combinations. When living in the United States, I can choose virtually anything to eat or find some way of accessing obscure foods.

A Mozambican friend asked me a few months ago what the staple crop of the United States is. I replied that it’s probably corn, but even then corn is not considered a staple in the same way that cassava is a staple crop in Mozambique. This is because in the United States, we produce many other crops year-round and we have the freedom of choice to eat something other than corn. We can choose from supermarkets, small grocery stores, farmers markets, or CSAs for our produce. We can choose for our foods to be organic, low fat/calorie, or gluten free.

Because of these freedoms, we’re not bound to dependency on climate or the environment, and even have choices within each season. In the spring there are leafy greens such as lettuce or kale. In the summer there are berries, and we can pick between strawberries or blackberries. The fall has squashes like pumpkins or acorn squash. And in the winter there are tubers such as potatoes and parsnips.

But many other people in the world are forced when making their food choices. Mozambique is twice the size of California, but has a fraction of the number of paved roads, so transportation and lacking infrastructure are huge problems. While in North America there’s a push for people to choose to buy locally-grown foods, in Mozambique there’s often no choice BUT to eat locally grown foods. Many farmers cannot access markets to sell their products or bring in any new products. For some people, money is so tight that if someone only has 100 meticais (a little less than $4), they will choose whatever is cheapest or will go farthest, rather than what is healthiest.

Commercial farms come into the country and dictate to local farmers what they will produce, leaving the farmers no choice but to comply. Local and regional industries may buy local produce, but they’re the ones to decide how the raw materials will be processed, so the famers have no decision-making power in the end result. Also, local cultures may mandate what crops will be grown and the manner in which they are cultivated, so social pressures force farmers to choose doing things in the same way as before.

Sometimes, one person’s freedom of food choices exacerbates another person’s forced food choices. Have you ever noticed how all the sesame seeds on a hamburger bun look identical, or how every grain of rice you consume looks exactly like all the others surrounding it? This is not natural, but selected by only top grade produce that someone else chose. These choices are made based on food grades, stipulations, or regulations. To reach a certain grade, some farmers’ produce is turned away if their millet isn’t uniform or their sorghum is red with too many tannins, leaving them no choice but to receive little to no money for their work. Our individual choice between a hamburger and a hot dog represents dozens of other choices that have been made from industries, markets, supply chains, and manufacturers, which often are all out of the decision-making reach of rural farmers.

Other times, people are forced to surrender their food choice freedoms. If everyone had the freedom to eat whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, it would be chaos. For example, it’s unfeasible for Mozambicans to demand blueberries which are indigenous to my home region in Michigan, and it’s unreasonable for Michiganders to demand groundnuts indigenous to Mozambique. In the United States, many people have had excessive freedom of choosing food, which has led to sharp rises in obesity, cardiovascular diseases, and type II diabetes. In turn, these freedoms often lead to people being forced to limited lifestyles or dependency on medicine.

In order to move forward, there must be more equality and justice in food choices. Some people must choose to responsibly use American food freedoms. This means choosing to give away choices and freedoms like my brave friend did by joining Overeaters Anonymous or my family is doing by jointly adjusting their food lifestyles.

On one hand, farmers must choose to take risks such as educating their women instead of always sending them out to the fields, or in incorporating sustainable or conservation agriculture practices that may not be commonly used in their area. But on the other hand, systems must be altered allow these farmers to make new choices. Legislation must protect rural farmers and enhance their decision-making powers. Corporations must fairly compensate the suppliers of their raw materials. Governments, businesses, and civil society must choose to work together to create innovative solutions for addressing food insecurity. And collectively, we must choose to eat in ways that dignify the producer, such as buying fairly traded goods.

I believe that global food security is possible, as long as we all make a few different choices.

january

These past 31 days have been characterized by soaring temperatures, tons of work, sporadic deluging rainfalls, and little to write about it all. Therefore, I will let pictures express a few highlights of the month.


In the first few days of the month, my MCC teammates and I met in Beira for our quarterly meetings. We had decided that we would aim for a fun day at the beach beforehand. So we packed everyone’s family and friends into our caravans and travelled out to Rio Savane. We arrived around lunchtime hot and hungry, only to discover that the lodge had no food, save for a few random bags of potato chips. A few of the adventurous among us trekked out on the scorching beach to find a fishing village about 2k north. They returned bearing not only fish, but monstrously-sized fish weighing in around 8 kilos (or 17.5 pounds). The tuna was delicious.


We celebrated the New Year (regardless of which year it actually was)!


The rains came down and the floods came up. My unpaved road turned to a river of mush, and the rooftops were such lakes that it sounded like it was raining for three days after the storm.


A surprise package arrived a little late for Christmas festivities, but that didn’t stop me from putting up its paper snowflakes on my windows to commemorate January snowshowers at home and the tradition of snowflake making parties with my college friends.


I finally replaced both my International Drivers Permit and my Mozambican residency card after the originals were stolen in September. They also continue my tradition of looking like a livid serial killer in all important photo documents.

to smell of fish and poo

Advent is a tricky thing. On one side of Advent there are the Christmas gifts to wrap and merriment to prepare. There’s a familiar old set of songs to sing and gatherings to attend. But on the other hand there’s the fact that all of these festivities are only made possible through the oppression, depravity and brokenness of humanity and the earth. If there was no underlying struggle, there wouldn’t be a need for Jesus to be born, no birthday to celebrate and therefore need to put gaudy twinkle lights on every outdoor surface of our homes.

I’ve recognized this tension as my busy December has been filled with emotionally exhausting work, extensive road travel and some serious relaxation. From American Thanksgiving through the first week of December, I worked in Beira to help make my MCC boss’ life a little more organized. While in Beira, I visited an orphanage where my afore-blogged friend Ruth works. Then on our way driving down to Maputo, a crew of fellow-MCCers and I made a quick stop in Vilanculos, a town on the Indian Ocean. It was amazingly beautiful, and Jon and I were able to dive and snorkel, swim with dolphins and sea turtles and gaze out at ridiculously turquoise water. We hurried to Maputo in time to wait in consecutive days of nine to twelve hour meetings with our CCM-ASA colleagues. We also learned that the epic grant whose decision we have been waiting for in the past nine months will in fact not come through for at least another six months, if at all. This means drastic changes in the scope of our program, personnel and budgets. To drown some sorrows, I then headed further south to the lovely Swaziland with lovely friends for a far too short vacation. And to top it all off, I’m heading back up to Beira to spend Christmas there with friends.

In all of these comings and goings, I’ve been reminded of this season’s thin line between joy and pain. It’s uncomfortable to sing oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant when visiting a country with the highest adult HIV/AIDS prevalence rate in the world. It’s difficult to envision the desire of nations coming to bind all peoples in one heart and mind when you realize your culture has fundamental differences with someone else’s. It’s crazy to think of walking in a winter wonderland as dust sticks to sweaty skin when walking down a sweltering street. It’s challenging to wait for the government to be upon Jesus’ shoulders and his name to be called wonderful counselor when elections are scammed and lifelong presidents are once again sworn into office. And it’s hard to imagine fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains repeating the sounding joy when nothing but diplomatic rhetoric was repeated at the climate conference in Durban, and throwing money around was concluded to be the only solution to protecting the environment in developing countries.

But there is something oddly comforting in knowing that little Lord Jesus knows what it’s like to not have a crib for his bed as I’m holding an infant who was abandoned by his mother. It’s easier to hear heaven and nature singing when you’re hovering just under the surface of gently rolling ocean waves to watch an incredible coral reef burst with color and life. There’s some sort of tiding of comfort and joy when every Swazi we asked for directions gave them to us with a smile and without judgment for being tourists.

After leaving the orphanage in Beira a few weeks ago, I walked back to where I was staying on a sand road alongside of the ocean. It was such a delightfully bright and sunny day, and I felt so blessed for having such a free and lavish blessing as the ocean to view. But then I started to smell something fishy. Really fishy. I realized that the dirty diaper of the child I had been holding had accidentally left some residue on my arm. While considering this revelation, a strong sea gust hit me with an overwhelming stench of dead fish. So there I was again with all that yucky in the midst of all that beauty.

For me, the compelling and bittersweet thing about Advent is that it celebrates Jesus being born into a world of juxtaposition. The reason that the weary world is rejoicing is because of all of the pining over sin and error in which we lay. The celebration of Christ’s birth is highlighted by how much we need to be born into something new. Our spirits are cheered by they dayspring’s advent with us. We rejoice that the Emmanuel is God actually with us, born into our helplessness and with us from the heights of the Drakensburg foothills to the depths of coral reefs. We sing and smile and wrap and glow because we have the hope that a new and glorious morn will break somewhere yonder in the future. But for the time being, as we sort through the beautiful and the heartbreaking and the injustice and the rejoicing, we know that God is with us, no matter what we smell like.

plans

I am in a state of mourning.

I am mourning the loss of a beloved book that is strewn somewhere on the Marginal hillside. I am mourning my missing residency visa that was both ridiculously expensive and brand new. I am mourning having one less long-sleeved shirt come winter. I am mourning not having my purse or wallet which were both made by local artisans and having to live out of my pockets and makeshift bag. I am mourning my personal belongings that were cast aside because they are of no value to anyone but me. I am mourning not having my simple and ideal phone that saw me through a year of conversations in Mozambique. I am mourning the corruption of the Maputo police force whose purpose is to make money instead of serving the people. I am mourning my lack of peaceful inner calm when in shock and my quick turn to anger over forgiveness. Mostly, I am mourning the fact that I have control over nothing.

When I arrived back in Maputo a week and a half ago, everything was wonderful. Getting back to friends, work, church and the streets I’ve come to know so well was great. Even last week’s chilly storms and this week’s warm sunshine have been delightful. But sometimes things change very quickly.

This past Sunday, my church had a fabulous guest pastor from Kenya come and preach for us. He was funny and poignant, and touched on how God has plans for each of us, and how when we cling to the hope of that knowledge in dark times, it will get us through. On the way home from church, I spoke with my new Dutch friend who recently moved to Mozambique with his wife, but without any job. They both felt a calling to come here, and they have totally surrendered to God’s will for placing them where He will in the country. I commended him for what a cool, brave and slightly crazy testimony that is for living a life in God’s plans instead of our own. Then that night, a missionary working in South Africa spoke at the Sunday night fellowship I attend. He described how God has plans to use each of us, even if that means a lot of shaping and sloughing off of unhelpful parts of us.

I went into Monday so encouraged from all of the encounters I just had in various forms of church. But I suppose that all of that enthusiasm for God’s control and plans was put to the test on Monday night when my purse and all of its internal treasures were snatched away as a friend and I simply sat talking on a park bench. While my passport, work notebook and baggie of medicine came back to me, many other belongings will never be mine again. I was overcome with senses of shock, rage, despair and grief. I was so angry with non-committing police officers who demanded payment in order to be encouraged to work. I was so upset at the thought of having to go through the arduous process of getting my residency visa all over again. And I was so appalled by the injustice of having my things as casualties in a thief’s pursuit of money.

All of my worldly possessions in Mozambique fit in three suitcases. The capacity of my things could stretch across the surface of my twin sized bed and no further. Yet I lost a few beloved treasures from my simple and sparse trove without any warning or explanation. But then slowly, I began to acknowledge these they are just things. Just stuff. And maybe I somehow felt entitled to that stuff. Like it was mine or I deserved it. Somehow I must have felt justified in having domain over the few items in my room. And I think I must have stuffed myself with thinking that they were important. My purse was stolen by a hand and not a knife or gun. My friend and I were not injured in the event. And despite my major inconveniences now, I will be fine. I do not know why I fell into the plans of a bag-napper. But I do know that I always fall into God’s bigger plans. And now I will keep falling, but with a few pieces of stuff sloughed off.

everywhere

You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
Psalm 139: 1-10

I love to travel. This fact is quite obvious to anyone observing this blog, but it is nonetheless true. I love seeing places, meeting people, eating food, using maps and wearing my Chacos. I have been tremendously blessed with opportunities over the past few years to not only discover different cultures and countries that are very new to me, but to also learn and grow from these experiences.

In the last few weeks I’ve been traveling quite a bit. I’ve skipped up to Beira for meetings, hiked over to Gorongosa National Park for relaxation, jumped over to Tete to visit the communities my organization is working in, gallivanted through Zambia to hang out with fellow SALTers and flew down to Maputo to carry on with my life. Some photographic evidence of said travels is as follows:







This last year of living in Mozambique has been one filled with every emotion under the sun. Anger, boredom, joy, frustration, wonder, love and sadness have all worked to morph me into a new person with every new day. I have faced extreme challenges, but have also earned extreme perseverance. I have been cut down over and over again, but have also been shown the kindness of people who have built me back up. And I have taken a broken and imperfect city and turned it into my home.

As much as I’m anxious to being back in the eyes and arms of my family and friends, I’m also feeling torn in leaving beloved friends that have become my family behind. I’m looking forward to the beach, the coffee, the food, the warmth and the conversations that await me, but it will be a whole new set of challenges to adjust back to living and working in the United States, and then adjust back to living and working in Mozambique three months later. I wish that I could be everywhere at every time.

I was dwelling on this desire last weekend when I was struck by Psalm 139 in church on Sunday. I realized that I am not able to be everywhere. And that’s okay. Because God is. He has been with me everywhere I’ve gone in and around Mozambique in this last year. He’s the one who completely knows the stumbling Portuguese words on my tongue and perceives the scattered English thoughts in my head. He’s the one who hemmed up my foot when it was nearly broken and he’s the one who put his hand on me to bring healing back to my life. And he’s the one who has settled me on one side of the ocean and will settle me on another side of a great lake. Just as I found God in Cape Town and Capinga and Choma, I’ll find him back home as well. And as I travel back and forth from one home to another, I take comfort in knowing that God is everywhere, taking care of everything and everyone, even when I’m not.

developments

God has been extra busy answering prayer requests lately. Not like this is anything new, but while I’ve been extra busy balancing two jobs, language learning and life in general, it’s pretty great to know that he’s taking care of everything. When I moved back to Maputo a little over a month ago, I had a few concerns on my mind. Fret number one: I didn’t care where I lived the city, I just wanted to be safe. God answered my prayer by placing me in the Fort Knox of Maputo; naturally, a missionary guest house. Fret number two: I didn’t care where I lived in the city, but it would be super swell to be able to walk to work. The prayer was answered by my prime location of a 15 minute walk in different directions to work, downtown and the ocean. Fret number three: my friends and church in Beira were really wonderful, and it would be lovely to find the equivalent in Maputo. I realized how incredibly this was answered as at ladies’ Bible study this past week—made available through the great international church I’ve started attending—my newest Australian and Sierra Leonean friends were sharing their thanksgiving that I was brought into their group. Awesome.

My life has been filled with such lavish blessings lately that Maputo has taken on a whole other form. It actually feels like home, weirdly enough. It still is the quirky, dirty, frustrating and crowded place that it always was, but I’ve begun to see its underlying charm of diversity, community and opportunity for improvement. My Portuguese is lackluster, but it functions well enough to share jokes and learn Shangana vocabulary not from English, but from Portuguese. My social circle is small, but I’ve been blessed with the companionship and grace of a few great people. I’m finding comfort in the broken sidewalks, the erratic temperatures, the flourishing acacias and the soul-warming gelão lattes.

On top of everything else, work has been stellar. I spend about 10 hours a week getting in touch with my geeky organizational side as I revamp the booking, filing and clutter-management systems of the guest house of my two elderly employers. Evangeline, the older of the two sisters, said during one of our planning meetings, “God is wonderful, but we have some room for improvement.” I’m helping them sort out all of the different ways the guest house can improve. In my real job, our water and food security program is making huge progress in the development of our budgeting, project management, monitoring and researching systems. Our Water and Food Security Program (called ASA, which stands for Água e Segurança Alimentar) is continuing the work of individual projects that have been running since 2007, but as of August 2010, are now unifying them all under one national program. In the past few months I’ve done a ton of work in helping solidify all of our meetings and conversations and brainstorming about the project into objectives, activities and plans that we can actually utilize. The word asa means wing in Portuguese, and a few months ago Jorge, the wonderful boss of my boss, said “If asa means wing, then with the ASA Program, we are going to fly.” He’s a source of never-ending inspiration.

The ASA Program is currently running water conservation and sustainable agriculture projects in two provinces, but we’re getting ready to expand into an additional four provinces by the end of 2014. My coworkers on the coordination team and I are realizing how much work goes into managing a national program, but it’s really exciting to see how far we’ve come in the time that I’ve been here. Because of the type of work that I’ve been doing lately and the ways that the ASA Program has progressed, my position has changed a bit. I am now the Donor Management and Communications Official, which is a really fancy title for report writing, brochure making and Internet researching. Finally after eight months, my coworkers and I are realizing that I may actually have skills to offer and contributions to make as the ASA Program grows. I’ve learned so much about development through the lenses of program management, multicultural teams, rural community involvement and technical approaches to meeting peoples’ needs. It has been so rewarding to be part of this program and to test and expand my textbook knowledge into practical, hands-on skills.

Back in February, I worked on a massive grant proposal to help propel the ASA Program into the next three years. MCC and CCM (Christian Council of Mozambique—the organization with which I work) learned a lot through this grant writing process, such as all the room that the ASA Program has to grow in terms of development, technical options, organizational partnerships and human resources. It was around this time that my job description changed, as CCM recognized that I have past experience working with donors and fundraising. It was also around this time that CCM offered me a position to stay on after my SALT term ends! I thought about it, prayed about it and talked about it, and then decided that the opportunity is too great to pass up. I deeply honored to have a chance to actually do something about food and water scarcity in places deeply affected by these needs. I love working submersed in a context different than home and building upon all that my education taught me. And I’m thrilled with the prospect of watching all of our hard work unfold as ASA expands.

The plan is that I’ll still come home at the end of July when my SALT term ends, but I’ll come back to Mozambique probably around October. The only catch in this whole prospective continuation is that everything depends on the funding from this grant which we applied for in February. If the grant is not awarded, then I am able to stay for six months, so I’ll return home around March 2012. But if the funding does come through, then my position is available for the next three years, until October 2014. Six months versus three years is a big difference, but I can do nothing but patiently wait until August when we find out the yay or nay about the grant. Regardless of what the outcome will be, I am so thankful for the ways that God has woven everything together in the last few months. I have been blessed with a new community and a fresh perspective that will make returning to Maputo come October more like a homecoming, regardless of how long I will stay. God has developed all of this development work in such a more excellent way than any of us organizations could have ever done it, and for that I have true gratefulness and peace about whatever the next batch of months will bring.

short and sweet

In the past two weeks, my life has been filled with the incredible. First and foremost, I find it incredible that my mother, of all people, managed to not only decide to come visit me, but actually followed through and made it back and forth in one piece! My mom joined me for the final leg of my sabbatical/hiatus/migration in Beira. She was able to meet some MCCers, play with a bunny, eat some delicious meals and gaze lovingly at the ocean. I introduced her to the lovely and eclectic community of friends I have in Beira, and was delighted by their hospitality and welcoming of her. They’re pretty great people. A small collection of these friends joined us at Rio Savane, a beach “resort” north of Beira, where we witnessed the incredible beauty of crabs, stars, sunsets and tides. Daily, my mom distributed gifts from family and friends from home. I was blown away by the love from so many dear people so far away. Thank you for your incredible thoughtfulness for such gifts such as trashy magazines, candy, faux snow, coffee and cards!

Halfway through her trip, my mom and I made our way down to Maputo so she could see where I live and work, and so I could get settled back into where I live and work. The month and a half in Beira was great, but it has been nice transitioning back into the life of the capitol. My mom stayed with me the guest house where I’ll be living for the remainder of my time in Mozambique. I will be helping the two short and sweet ladies who run this missionary guest house with simple yet revolutionary tasks such as answering the door late at night, planning guest bookings and replying to text messages on their cell phones. In return for my few hours a week I’ll work for them, they will provide me with a place to stay and three meals a day all within walking distance of my CCM office. I feel so incredibly blessed to have a housing situation actually work out well within the city. So many prayers have been answered, and it’s quite incredible to see everything unfolding so seamlessly. I’m actually starting to feel like I have a home in the city in which I live, and it’s a great thing.

I also received a new perspective on Maputo through my mom’s visit. We decided to spend my mom’s last Saturday at another incredible beach: Inhaca Island. On the other side of Maputo Bay, Inhaca Island was a touristy three hour boat ride away from the city. Our stay was short and fairly sweet, despite my bout of a boat-induced migraine. The island was extremely pretty, and it was delightful to see the water of Maputo Bay with a shimmering turquoise gleam instead of the dismal and polluted grey I’m used to on the city side. Plus, seeing Maputo from the outside looking in made the city so appear so impressive and sterile!

My mother lady’s short and sweet trip ended with a trip to a short and sweet lady. Whenever I travel, one of my favorite places to go is a local market. I love the smells and the makeshift, low-hanging ceilings and the bartering and the noise and the produce. And at my favorite market in Maputo, I love my friend Ilena. Throughout the past few months, she has been a welcoming presence in the city as someone who is always excited to see me and someone who won’t make fun of my horrible Portuguese. Her kindness always spills over as she slips me a few extra bananas or throws in an extra orange for free. I wanted to introduce my mom to her first market and first Ilena experience. We went earlier in the week, but Ilena insisted that my mom come back to see her one last time before she left. So we did just that. On our way to the airport, our taxi made a quick stop at the market for a final farewell, but the sweet lady did not want to cut things too short. She sent my mom on her way with two incredibly large mangos and an apple and orange, as well as a wooden spoon and two purses she grabbed from a neighboring stall. She presented these parting gifts to my projectile weeping mother who was overcome by Ilena’s generosity as a woman who gives tremendously more than she herself has. I was struck with the profound simplicity of loving a virtual stranger in such a lavish way, and wondered why it would be so hard for me to do what Ilena did so freely. It was pretty incredible.

what hope means

Beira is in a constant state of death. I’ve been living here in the second-largest city in Mozambique for over a month now, and there’s constant death all around us. In the last month, I’ve been staying with my country representative, Melanie, and her daughters in order to work more hours than I’d like to count and on more projects than I’d like to remember. In some ways, it’s been a death to our social lives. We read in the paper about how many people throughout the country have been swept away in flooding from the super heavy rains of the last month. Our colleagues tell us of how they need to take more time off work for the tenth funeral we’ve heard of this month. The salty sea air and swampy marsh ground nibble away at all of Beira’s buildings so that every other structure looks as dilapidated and mournful as some of those who dwell within them. Trash rolling in the ocean waves never ceases to disgust me as the pollution keeps killing little pieces of the environment and of me. Rumor has it (since data is often faulty) that the HIV/AIDS prevalence rate in the Beira corridor—the transport vein that runs from Harare, Zimbabwe to the Indian Ocean—has jumped to 38 percent, dwarfing the national average of 14 percent that already was unacceptably high. Childhood and education die for the girls of one of our partner organizations as their parents view 14 years old to be a sufficient age for marriage and classroom discontinuation. Food prices continue to increase, thereby continually diminishing some Mozambicans’ dreams of diversified diets. I’ve had to put to death the paralyzing notion within myself that Mozambique’s issues are too overwhelming to even developmentally dent, so that I can still get out of bed in the morning and go about my small life praying that somehow someone benefit from my effort in some small way.

But this death doesn’t mean that people stop living. In fact, it’s quite the opposite in these parts. I have found more community, more love, more beauty and more friendships represented by Beira than in any other part of the country I’ve visited. I never stop feeling grateful for the cool evening breezes, enamored by the incredible clouds that sweep in from the sea to land and humbled by the generosity of friends from various countries. One night, a few weeks ago, I was dwelling on this agape kind of love I was feeling God draping over Beira while sitting outside admiring the stars, conversations and food of the evening. We were attending a braai (a South African barbeque) at Melanie’s daughters’ school which began with the intention of allowing space for parents and teachers to socially mingle and ended with South Africans bickering over whose steak was grilled better. I realized that I felt completely at peace and entirely filled with joy. Previous Mozambican moments had given me happiness, but this was a sense of pure joy of not wishing to be any other place or worried about anything.

When the braai began I was talking with our friend Ruth and her husband and son. Ruth is a sweet English woman who boosts my awareness of friendship and love in Beira. But she’s been struggling a lot these last few weeks. She has fiber myalgia that she says makes her “legs feel like they don’t belong” to her and chronic back pain that makes each movement excruciating as her medication wears off. But the worst pain of all of her is her inability to do her nursing work to her full potential. One of her projects is distributing powdered milk to infants whose mothers either are HIV+ or lack the nutrition to breastfeed. She told us of how her previous week had been just awful as the bridge to one of her milk recipient communities washed away, leaving no way to access the mothers and giving Ruth guilt that some babies would now die. Another of her endeavors is an orphanage of HIV+ children to whom she gives medicine and check-ups. Ruth began to break down as she explained the story of one girl with stage four AIDS who still had not received ARV treatment. When Ruth called the local government to demand distribution of the free medication to the orphanage, the officials on the other end of the line lackadaisically said they would be there by the end of the month. She knows these kids don’t have that long.

So there we sat. The joy, the tears, the heartbrokenness and the love all hovered there in the air around us, mixing together and getting hazy. But the weirdest thing was that it was totally okay. Pain held hands with beauty, and joy pulled up a chair next to sorrow. And there we all dwelled. I didn’t feel guilty for the laughter we had a few moments before her story, and the breaking of Ruth’s heart in no way diminished the love it still contained. I still knew that I was exactly where I should be, and despite all of the death around me, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Around this same time, a dear friend from home shared with me a quote from a pastor of the church we used to attend:
“Ultimately our gift to the world around us is hope. Not blind hope that pretends everything is fine and refuses to acknowledge how things are. But the kind of hope that comes from staring pain and suffering right in the eyes and refusing to believe that this is all there is. It is what we need—hope that comes not from going around suffering but from going through it...It is in the flow of real life, in the places we live and move with the people we're on the journey with, that we are reminded it is God’s world and we’re going to be okay.”
And I think this is what hope means to me. Sure, babies still cry, funerals still occur and the water still inexplicably goes out in the middle of a dinner party. But the sun still rises every morning and joy is still available in the presence of utter destruction. And I think God stands in the messy middle between suffering and bliss and says “it’s alright. I got this.”

dirty stories

Some time ago, there was a guest speaker who came to the church that I used to attend back at home. I can't remember his name, home town or ethnic affiliation, but he was a Rwandan man who was interviewed by the pastor so that he might share his memories and observations from his life at home in 1994. All of us listeners were deeply struck by how patiently and quietly he told his gruesome and horrifying story of watching his loved ones be tortured to death and the place he grew up burned to the ground. The point of his tale wasn't to evoke pity or indignation, but to demonstrate how one man was able to find forgiveness and life lessons from this awful period of his life. His voice was sad and calm as he spoke of his past anger and his present peace, while all of us in the audience sat with gaping mouths and moist eyes. He explained that while we was (understandably) upset to say the least, he realized that as a survivor, he must not only honor the dead but also respect the living. Through his experience, he slowly began to forgive his enemies for what they did to his family, to forgive his kin for their hand in the violence, to forgive himself for not doing more to stop what happened, and most importantly to forgive God for letting it all unfold.

His profound story put me to shame. I thought of all of the insignificant ways I get easily angered, such as when my hurried time in a hectic schedule isn't acknowledged by others. And I remembered each of the times that I've struggled to forgive people, such as when I'm cut off in traffic or in front of in a long line at the supermarket. Needless to say, the burdens of my life pale in comparison to those of this Rwandan man. But I tucked this man's story into a little pocket of my heart and carried it with me to Mozambique. Upon my arrival here a few months ago, I was thinking of how this continent is filled with other stories like the guest speaker's that portray violence, marginalization, suffering and epic catastrophes. Mozambique alone has held its share of heartache with reoccurring droughts and famines, widespread extreme poverty and the decades-long civil war. Now, given the facts that I'm not 146 years old and have grown up in middle class America, I cannot share these manifestations of pain in the forms of civil war and hunger.

However, my life lessons here have given me my own crosses to bear. I have gotten livid when forced to pay more for bananas than the woman next to me because of my accent and skin color. I have been offended when my former host mother told me that I'm not a real woman because I'm American and don't have to work for anything. And I have had my little world turned upside down by a few wrong turns and a misunderstanding turned violent. I thought, oh no, I can't forgive because I'm too angry and far too offended and much too hurt.

Last week I was walking down the street on an exceptionally hot day, which made the odors from the dumpers I was passing particularly pungent. I started to wrinkle up my nose, my face involuntarily wore an expression of disdain and I sped up my stride to get past them quicker. But suddenly, the idea of honor the dead, respect the living popped into my head. Trash isn't exclusive to Mozambique. So therefore it shouldn't be defined by it. Sure, in this country death has come riding on the raindrops, as a result of feuding politics and through decaying diapers and mango rinds in garbage heaps. But while I acknowledge the death, there must be some drive to support the living. I realized that even if I hurried my walking to get past the uncomfortable situation faster, it doesn't fix the problem, or the fact that there might be something useful or teachable in all that smelly grossness. And if I really want my life to sing “This Is My Father's World” and believe that I'm spoken to everywhere, then God's domain needs to include these trash dump situations.

This leaves me in a tight tension of wanting to run through rustling grass and dwell on pretty things, while also recognizing that this world, this country, this street is laden with brokenness, pain and decay. It was somewhere in this tedious balance and the methane fumes from the littered sidewalk that I put down my sword and shield and forgave those who had done me wrong. The forgiveness process wasn't fun and it didn't feel good to be ripped apart in order to be built back up. But I can breathe a little bit easier, and now I don't take the smell of the fresh, nooma-living air for granted anymore. If true living means forgiveness, then I guess that's what it takes to bring some life to these dead, trashy situations of our world.

colors

It started with the “rainbow nation” and ended with a rainbow. In the beginning of December, my head was a disheveled mess of thoughts and my heart cluttered with emotions. By by the end of January, I feel like I'm in a much healthier place. I think much of this has to do with my time in South Africa. I spent the last three weeks of December retreating, vacationing, Christmasing and relaxing with MCC friends and colleagues around South Africa, which is often nicknamed the “rainbow nation” due to stated embracing of multiculturalism and multicolored people. While there, I was talking with one of my new good friends about my past experiences in Mozambique, and how sometimes I felt as though words couldn't even contain or describe some of the complex emotions of pain, regret and brokenness that I was feeling. She suggested that in the moments when words fail, other mediums, such as color meditation, can pick up the slack.

As it turns out, she was right. I began seeking out colors to intake new experiences and define what was already there. Being in a gorgeous country certainly helped. As did being surrounded by dear friends and colorful characters throughout my travels. I was able to find solace in the endless blue of the ocean waves, comfort in the fresh blue that came from my meditations on what peace means in a violent world, and joy in the perfect blue hues in my nieces' eyes over a Christmas Skype video call home. The green of tree covered mountains was refreshing and the green of wildebeest covered hills on our safari was incredible, while the green of internal growth blossomed into forgiveness.



This new perspective for perceptions continued as I transitioned back into the culture and pace of Maputo. Although, this time the colors took on different meanings. I traded in green of deciduous forests for the green of fabulous acacias strutting their stuff in clusters along the city streets. Thanks to the color coded chapa system, blue has been labeled by my transportation of late: the blue Museu—Xipamanine bus line, where joy comes from the little things of the cobrador whistling a showtune tribute to Andrew Lloyd Weber, and from the cobrador who screams “MUSEU! MUSEU!” outside the apartment window (which makes me wish that English-speaking transportation agents would also yell “MUSEUM!” to lure people on board). Among other things, brown in this city for me connotes the disgusting bodies of cockroaches who think they have made the apartment their domain, until they are met with my Chaco or Nadia's hardcover “My Happy Book” and my war cry of “Die! Die! WHY WON'T YOU DIE FOREVER?!” laced with eloquent profanity.

Last week, I was again remembering all of the unanswered questions that still linger around my life here. Questions such as: “when am I going to find a new host family?”, “what does my job look like in the upcoming months?”,'”why does God have to use such heinous situations in order for us to grow?”, and “what is that God-awful, puke-inducing smell in the stairwell?” still remain. But as I was taking a walk outside and dwelling on the uncertainties, a rainbow appeared. Not only that, but it was an awesome, full-fledged, massive arching double rainbow that seemed to span the city while also exactly centering Joél and Jenny's apartment building where I've been staying. It was as if God needed to remind me of his promises to take care of me, but in a way that I could actually comprehend. I didn't have to color analyze a thing or over think the meaning because it was right there, painted with an exceptional palate. The reds were THE perfect red and transitioned gradually yet accurately into the vibrant oranges and coy yellows and down the line. He has all transitions under control, not just in my stupid little life, but all throughout this broken city. And I take great comfort in this. Next week, I'm moving up to Beira for a month. But despite the new batch of hazy questions that arise in the scenery change, I'm blessed by a total sense of peace that whatever God has in store for February, it's bound to be colorful.

rainy season

I've grown up taking precipitation for granted. Spending the first 18 years of my life across the street from Lake Michigan, with its five month long ritual of lake effect snow, and the next five years in Grand Rapids, apparently the second rainiest city in the country, has not left me in want of moisture. But watching storm clouds tumble along the Indian Ocean coast, or seeing lightning bolts shock the Maputo cityscape with electric pink reminds me that I'm actually quite blessed.

In these past few months I've learned not only more about sustainable agriculture and water conservation techniques such as sand dams, but also about the stark reality of the needs behind these practices. I could easily throw out dozens of statistics that evoke pity, enlightenment and overwhelming helplessness at the magnitude of water deprivation issues in sub-Saharan Africa alone. But experiencing how tangible and sensual water problems puts lively flesh to the dry bones of statistics. People eat or starve by the rains, crops live or die by the rains, and roads are passable or soup by the rains. Walking across a sand pit that used to be a river, relishing in the taste of sun-baked water because the tap is untrustworthy, and smelling the electric nitrogen-laden air as we eagerly await the rain are all reminders that the start of the rainy season actually means something.

In my home culture, rain is often perceived as a soggy and depressing nuisance that inevitably interjects the sunny rest of life. This has also been my perception of the last few weeks here. A little over three weeks ago, the tension that was building during the dry season finally burst the dam of my host family. Lightning descended and the floods rose, and the life I had delicately constructed here began to dissolve. Trust has been lost, relationships have melted, memories now have scars, and I have often found myself drowning in a sea of emotions that this rainy season has brought upon us. My Mozambican social circle has been broken and almost everything has fallen apart.

But despite the magnitude of the suffering and sadness, I am waterproof. The puddles of muddied confusion have expanded exponentially, but still I know how to swim. And though this week the winds have risen and the temperatures dropped, I am still anchored in place by something firm, yet intangible. As much as I wish to escape the hurtful, the disgusting, the violating, and the regret, there's no use running away. I'm slowly realizing that God is present as much here as anywhere else. He's the air mattress on the living room floor when I'm homeless. He's the arm around the shoulder when I'm reading bad news. He's the peace that comes after my tears have drained all my energy. And he's that quiet farmer who's planting seeds with a smirk on his face and a head full of thoughts no one will ever know. Maybe when the rain stops pelting everything in my sight, something green will pop up out of the drenched ground. It's my only hope. For now, I'll find solace in remembering the words of the lovely poetess Luci Shaw in her eloquently simple poem “Forecast”:

planting seeds
inevitably
changes my feelings
about rain

bouncy hearts

A few weeks ago, while recovering from my foot incident, I attempted to catch up on the sermons that I've been missing from the church I've attended in the last few years. While I am still many weeks behind in the online sermon archive, I listened to a message from early September that felt just as real as if it was spoken just for me right then and there. Since then, the message has kinda been stalking me, and creeping into my mind throughout the emotional roller coaster of my past few weeks.

This particular sermon of interest was starting off a short series on the book of Ezekiel, which seeks to capture all of the joys and obscurities of this random prophetic Old Testament book. By the time the story reaches Ezekiel 11, the Israelites have been driven off of their promised land and are left displaced and posession-less in the territory of their oppressor. Up until this point, the book has been one bummer after another, and the Israelites are pretty much at the end of their luck. Then, all of a sudden, God bursts into the situation and says, “Although I sent them far away among the nations and scattered them among the countries, yet for a little while I have been a sanctuary for them in the countries where they have gone...I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.” [Ezekiel 11:16, 19].

I'm really struck by the inclusive language that God uses here. It's not just “I'm going to do stuff for you individually,” but instead, “you're all going to be in this together.” And he's not just like, “Well, have a a nice trip as I fling you to different corners of the world,” but instead, “hey, I'll be there too and make sure you have what you need.” When it comes to hearts of flesh instead of stone, God promises not to remove the hard, disappointing, gross, depressing or painful parts of our lives, but rather equip us with what we need to make it through. It seems counter-intuitive that something soft and cushy would be tougher than what's solid and hard. But my pastor pointed out that we need hearts that are rubbery and maliable, so that they'll bounce back after God throws us into challenging situations...like being scattered among the countries.

My pastor described that when God talks about giving his people an “undivided heart,” he really means creating a community with one unified vision. This struck me after all the work that my MCC team here is Mozambique has been doing lately. Much of our tangible work and energy has been spent on creating vision statements, articulating our mission and outlining what it will take to get ourselves and our partner organizations to where we want to be. But then I started thinking again about the earlier point of the need for fleshy hearts and flexible characters when it comes to all these new challenges. As I started thinking about the past two months, I'm realizing all of the ways that we've been emotionally and physically tossed around. Since this time in August, we've had MCC Moz team members with homesickness and stomach sickness, fevers and sunburns. There have been rolled ankles, broken fingers, bruises and cuts. We've shared clinic visits, emotional breakdowns, prayers and the worries following a nighttime fainting spell and a closed head injury. But at the same time, we're all miraculously still here. The canoes didn't tip over, the chapas didn't crash, the planes worked as they were supposed to and the cars got us home in one piece. And through it all, we're together, unified in the realization that this work isn't easy, that the food isn't always good, that we have more nagging questions than relieving answers and that we're all at various levels of emotional disarray. But at least it's not just my heart bouncing around or my solitary feeling of displacement. God's doing a lot of work here, and I have quite the sneaky suspicion that he's starting by making our hearts just a little more squishy.

add it to the list

It's been a crazy past few days. After doing much traveling in the past weeks, I was looking forward to getting back to my routine, host family and work. Friday morning began as any typical work day as I stood by the side of the main road waiting for a bus into the city, and then kept waiting as the bus I caught slowly made its way through the heinous Maputo morning traffic. I was lucky enough to be able to sit down during the ride, and although this meant sitting in the direct sunlight for two and a half hours, I was trying to stay upbeat. When I got closer to my bus stop in the city, I decided to climb over all the bags, seats, children and legs that were between me and the door so I would be ready when my stop came. What began as one big stride over some baggage ended with me crumpled on top of my twisted foot. Apparently the floor wasn't as stable as I thought. This now tops the list of Ways Katie Gets Hurt When She's Clumsy.

I hobbled my way to work, trying to maintain my composure amidst the pain and worry that I had further messed up my bad ankle. Once I arrived at CCM, Jenny, my MCC colleague, was there to hear of my accident, my awful morning, my frustrations and my general emotional havoc. As the morning went on and my pain worsened, we decided to make our way over to the private clinic to check out my foot and ankle situation. After five hours, four x-rays and three snack crackers, we ended up with two different doctors, diagnoses and disgruntled Americans. The first doctor looked at the x-rays and concluded that nothing was broken, but a bone was just displaced. However, she recommended that we wait for the opinion of the second doctor who would be there in 15 minutes. Two and a half hours later, the second doctor arrived, stating that it was merely a sprain, the bones were fine and a simple bandage cast would be fine. In the end, I was given a full plaster of Paris cast and felt much more discomfort with my cast and unanswered questions than feeling like the visit was worth all the trouble.


By the end of Friday, I had many new additions for my list of Frustrations. I was hungry, tired, annoyed, inconvenienced, sore and generally quite negative. I was frustrated that my host family didn't seem to care that I was hurt and that instead the burden of taking care of me unfairly fell upon Jenny. I was annoyed with how much money and resources it took for such a dumb thing as a twisted ankle and that we still needed to buy me a crutch as well. And I felt awful for taking up so much of Jenny and Joél's time as they were trying to prepare for leaving on vacation the next day.

But by the next morning, I realized that all of my negativity had been really short-sighted. With the morning light came a new perspective that things weren't as bad as I had made them out to be. I cast aside dwelling on my lists of angering and frustrating things, and instead chose to add to my lists of Things To Be Grateful For and New Experiences. To the latter list, I can now add the experiences of Mozambican health care, learning to coordinate walking with a crutch and creatively showering when only one foot can get wet. I'm truly grateful that the injury isn't worse, that I have incredible coworkers who go above and beyond the titles of colleagues and friends, that I have an amazing MCC team here who prays for me and sends me encouraging texts and emails, and that I can recuperate at Joél and Jenny's apartment instead of commuting from Matola. I'm thankful for the little things like a ride to Sunday night fellowship, the luxury of Skype-ing with family and for fresh air on the roof where I can watch the Maputo skyline. Yeah, it's a bummer that my foot is hurting, but at least I now that I will be just fine.

machanga skies

Priscila wasn't lying. Her repeated lure to get me to visit Machanga was that the night sky is incredible and unlike anywhere else. And as it turns out, she is absolutely right. After spending some time in Beira for our MCC team meetings, I decided to take Priscila, my Brazilian MCC colleague, up on her offer of spending a few days at the Machanga girls center where she works. In Machanga around 5:00 every afternoon, the scorching sun races to the horizon. But instead of making it the whole way, the sun sets a ways above the horizon, as if it's more tired than it's made everyone else during the day. Then 6:00 comes and rewards Machanga residents with the relief of cool breezes and a cloudless indigo sky. The stars begin to pour out from their hiding places as if God has been saving his best constellations for the southern hemisphere. Since Machanga is in fact in the middle of nowhere, no light pollution disrupts the show as the solstice moon and vivid Mars vie for the attention of the stargazer. When the conditions are perfect, the entire Milky Way lights up like a sea of hazy fireflies, so close one could almost touch them. And to see the Southern Cross—the pride of national flags and elusive to Northerners—behind the silhouette of coconut palms is amazing. The gorgeous night sky alone makes enduring the heat and exhaustion of Machanga worth it.



Life in Machanga is simple, but challenging. It's a life full of dust and charred grass, but lacking food diversity and widespread electricity. It's a life where a purchase totaling $4 USD means months of savings, and where getting to the closest paved road means two and a half hour bus ride. It's a life where bathrooms mean holes in the ground and raffia walls, and where kitchens mean smoky stoves and jerrycans of well water. But it's also a life where the continual bubbling of Ndau means friends are close by, and where celebrations of steady canoes and shrimp to eat means not taking common elements for granted.



The slow and relaxed pace of life allowed me time for reflection on how my present surroundings materializes my past eduction and future work of the next ten months. I found myself thinking of my International Development degree, and how it's really just a fancy title for something that offers more questions than answers. I remembered my final capstone paper where I praised my subject, Denis Goulet, for his definition of development as: “a process by which life is made more human in some meaningful way.” In May of 2009 when I completed the paper, I found this statement to be empowering as it encompassed granting people a more ethical existence through increasing their dignity, freedom, rights and opportunities. But in September of 2010, I am reinterpreting this statement as a shallow, incomplete and perhaps even a degrading way of labeling those who are impoverished as somehow less human than those who are more affluent. If I shower without a ceiling overhead and fear sunburn as I bathe, does that make me less human? Or if I work in a huge steel building in a office with air conditioning, fluorescent lights and no outside windows, does that make me more human?



Even though I stayed only briefly in Machanga, there was something very human about my experience. Being sick during my stay made me pay close attention to the needs of my body. Having limited conversation abilities made me rely more heavily on motions, gestures and facial expressions to get my point across. Sweating, eating, laughing and walking all seemed to be very human experiences, but still didn't seem to get me any closer to a better definition of development. While I attempt to sort everything out in my mind, I'll keep my eyes open and stay amazed at simple things like stargazing.

vision

The past month has been really challenging. Acclimating to a new language, culture, set of bacteria and cuisine has been more difficult than I expected. I've begun to read 2 Corinthians 4:8 in a whole new way. I may not be crushed, but I've certainly felt pressed as my four to five hour daily commute has literally jammed me in various forms of public Mozambican transportation. I was certainly perplexed and tempted by despair as riots in Maputo kept me in a confused state of house arrest for five days. Barriers of language, skin color and customs made me feel lonely, and sometimes I struggled to remember that I'm not abandoned. And after being bruised, bloodied, muddied, stubbed, and generally struck down (just in my walk to work alone), much of my patience and energy has been destroyed. But God has continued to remind me that my increasingly fracturing clay jar only leaves more room for him to fill in my ever-expanding weaknesses and inadequacies. Lately, I'm learning a lot about vision—not only in the act of seeing, but also in recalibrating my perspective.

Physically and tangibly, I've stopped taking many things for granted. Transportation, time, family, friends, running water, conversations, soap and vegetables all mean something different to me after being here. Health has also cut into my altering perspectives, as a few days of pink eye renewed my gratefulness for the ability to have vision. Additionally, stumbling back to my host family's house—a treacherous 12 minute walk from the paved main road—in the utter blackness of the bush after a long day in the city makes me super thankful for the sight aids of cell phones and mini flashlights.


Before I came to Mozambique, I had a vision for what my host family and living situation would be like. I live with my new mami, Dona Monica, and her four daughters. Our house is in Matola, a “suburb” of Maputo, located southwest of the city. The road we take into the city is the same that directs traffic into South Africa and/or Swaziland. The family's husband and father passed away last year, but people are never scarce in this house. Grandma, a nephew, friends and grandchildren keep the house bubbling with Portuguese discourse, Changari orders, and in-human shrieks, just for the sake of noise. The family is loud, welcoming and filthy rich. Wine bottles clutter the main sitting room, a china and gold laden table constantly remains set in the dining room, (at least) three kitchens create a maze when trying to locate anyone, and multiple cars crowd the long brick driveway. Needless to say, it turned out to be a bit different in reality than in my imagination. My vision did not include an upper class family, the luxury of having food but choosing not to eat or the daily passing of slums to arrive at a mansion in the middle of nowhere. But my new vision is slowly changing to incorporate the reality of class divide and the existence of affluent Mozambicans. As my MCC coworker Stephen said a few weeks back, “One day this will all seem normal, but today is not that day.” I'm still waiting for that day to come.


But despite the challenges of changing my perspectives, I've also experienced the excitement of gaining a new overarching vision. I've spent the last week in Beira with the entire MCC Mozambique team for a retreat. It took us Maputo residents 16 hours to get here, but I've greatly enjoyed learning more about the country, my coworkers and our joint vision for our MCC programs. Through our meetings, frustrations have been aired, joys have been shared, friendships have been solidified, many games have been played and serious strategic planning has taken place. In the last two weeks, my colleges in the sustainable agriculture and water (ASA) program of CCM have chartered our vision, mission and objectives for the next three years, as well as how they fit into MCC's work in Mozambique. Being the development geek that I am, I've been thrilled in discovering our collective mission, as well as my contribution toward it. Our team has articulated that MCC Mozambique seeks to follow the teachings of Jesus through healthy, sovereign partnerships to nurture just, abundant life in the areas of water, food security, education, peace and HIV/AIDS awareness. I'm so excited to be a part of a group that shares my passions, goals and drive, and I'm anxious to watch our Spirit-led vision unfold in our attempt to bring a little heaven to this corner of the earth. And I'm also glad to finally watch my preoccupied short-sightedness wither away in the light of a new vision.

bringin' the flavor

Maputo is a taste I can't put my finger on. It's like a flavor that I've experienced before, but yet at the same time is totally different. It's as awkward on the tongue as my infant-like Portuguese. It's as delicious as the food we're eating as we stay in a home for traveling missionaries. It's as suddenly spicy as the instant my life flashes before my eyes as a chapa speeds around a corner and misses me by inches. It's as sweet as the smiles from my CCM coworkers as they welcome me to my "second home." It's as flavorful as the salty air that bounces in over the fish markets along the banks of the ocean. But yet it's an unfamiliar taste like one that can only get better with time.

Priscila, Stephen and I have just completed our third day bumping around Maputo in a daze of excitement, exhaustion and wonder. I still feel a bit numb from our whirlwind weekend of traveling and all that lead up to our arrival. We flew on two overnight flights in a row to get us from orientation in Akron, to a long layover in London, to a short goodbye to Elise in Johannesburg, and finally to Maputo. But we have made it (even with all of our luggage!), and are staing safe and well-fed under the provision of Casa Koinonia staff.



I still have trouble realizing that I'm actually here. All of my planning and preparation is done, all of my farewells have been said and all of my fundraising is taken care of. Maputo is now my home. And in many ways, I feel that this is a homecoming rather than a new beginning. The headaches that plauged my head before I came have been replaced with the quiet and ever-present nudging that this is exactly where I need to be. The red dirt, the blue water, the green palm trees, the orange trash on the street, the white walls and the brown eyes all remind me of the aching in my heart ever since I left Ghana. This is certainly the beginning of this chapter, but it is not the beginning of the story.


My Portuguese is improving every day (thanks to the lessons from Brazilian Priscila), my jet lag is weaning, I'm more used to traffic coming in the opposite direction and I'm indeed feeling more and more at home. I've discovered bits and pieces about my host family, such as the facts that they were solidified the day before I got here, they have two daughters and they live an hour and a half from Maputo. I'm not thrilled about the three hour daily commute to work, but it will give me a chance to explore the city more and become proficient in the transportation system of chapas, or minibuses.


This afternoon, we spent some time in orientation and reflection at the home of Joel and Jenny, two MCC workers who have taken us under their wings. Jenny challenged us to spend our year seeking the ways that God is moving in Mozambique, even if "kingdom-bringing" looks quite different than what we're used to at home. It reminded me of the passage in Matthew 5 where Jesus talks about Christians' presence in the world, among other things. Don Davis, an occasional guest pastor at Mars Hill, calls us to be the light of the world and salt of the earth in terms of "get your shine on, and bring the flavor." I don't feel very shiny yet in Maputo, but I'm definantly feeling the flavor.